I had a dream. It was a foggy morning. Bits of sun shone through breaks in the fog and down onto a grassy pathway in the middle of a forest. I was walking the path. Up ahead was a clearing. I got to the clearing and saw an old indian sitting by a small fire, smoking a pipe. He motioned me over and I went and sat down beside him. He offered me the pipe and I took a long draw from it. The smoke tasted odd, laced with magick.
“Look down your path,” said the old shaman.
I turned and the fog parted to reveal another path out of the foggy clearing. I got up and went to the entrance of the path. Down by my feet was a pile of smooth flat stones.
“A path is made by laying one stone in front of another.” I heard the truth in his voice even as he said it.
Bending down, I grabbed a stone and placed it in the entrace of the path, and as I did so, I began to believe…
